Warm Bodies

I’ve awoken from my comatose state after yesterday’s marathon to find my bed is floating gently in the air, and the floor itself is steaming. It’s some kind of magic, cold steam, yet it’s thick and humid in the room. I’m not sure who’s idea this was, but it’s thoroughly unpleasant and not at all conducive to good sleep. After timing my departure from the bed with its gentle rise and fall, I took a moment to take stock of the situation so far.

The Royal Guard arranged this entire meeting just to show off how skillful and effective their mages-turned-Marshals have become. I nearly died in the meeting because of the hubris of the Director trying to put on a show for me, allowing an assassin to come within inches of killing me. Not once yesterday was I asked what my plan is for rebuilding the police department; in fact, they seemed not at all interested in changing the status quo. I felt almost as if I were a non-factor, like I was invisible. Infuriating.

It’s time to draft a list and a plan to get this figured out once and for all. After getting dressed, I quickly sneak my way out of the room to try and find a comfortable place to sit and write things down. Right as I spy a small lounge area with a table, a mage woman behind a counter-desk spots me and tells someone I’ve woken up. Within seconds, a duo of two very tall, lanky mages arrives and stands over me. They’re both male elves, freakishly tall and skinny.

“John, our apologies, but the Director would like to meet with you again to discuss business.”

Ah, finally. I'll have to wing it, then.

I follow them to what appears to be an empty closet. We all step inside, a flash of light blinds me, and we’re teleported to an adjacent office on the same floor as the meeting room from yesterday. As soon as I take my first step from the closet, my balance falters, then regains itself. One of the elves explains it as a temporary symptom of teleportation. Through geometric windows lining the walls, I can see a breathtaking panorama of the central capitol, a light fog dusting the tops of the buildings.

The Director is seated at a grand desk and welcomes me in.

“It’s time to talk, young man.”, he says through his silvery beard.

“We have asked you to take over the Order of Police. Have you an idea of the resources you’ll need to accomplish this?”

We spend the next half hour going over, line by line, every possible expense I can imagine for rebuilding the department. Staffing, recruitment, renovations, a jail facility, equipment, transportation, communication, unionization, legal representation, technology, magical research, and inter-departmental integration.

By the end of it, he seems thoroughly worn out. The conclusion of the talks was, in short, “Staffing, recruitment, renovations, yes. Everything else, come talk to me once I’ve spoken with the Board”.

So, a successful meeting. I’ll take it! One thing in particular he impressed upon me was the existence of the Royal College of Magic’s own prison facility, specifically designed for rogue mages. A representative from the College should be showing up at some point to give me a guided tour whenever they’re ready for me.

Having been given a de-facto blank check for the most pressing needs I had in mind, I’m eager to return to the station to get a handle on things, however, Leia finds me strolling down a hallway, fully absorbed in myself, breaking me away from my train of thought.

I did my best to fight off her rather cutting questions of how I found the college, what I thought of the Director, what I thought of the elves working for him, how cool the Royal Guard’s apprehensions yesterday were, and I finally convinced her we’re ready to head back and to call the carriage for us.

Another extremely stressful concrete-pad-flight from the tower down to the ground, and we were on our way from the College. A slightly more plush carriage this time, and another opportunity to ogle the city streets beside the College. We arrive back at the station.

To my surprise, that same crowd of strange, hooded elf-like figures is still standing outside, across the street, staring at me. Once I’m let in through the central gate, I see the dwarves have been hard at work cleaning up – the vines have been cleared out somewhat, the grass was cut, and some of the concrete had been cleaned. I can barely contain my smile. Good stuff!

As I push on the front door, I discover someone oiled it and fixed it up. I had only just gotten used to using my full bodyweight to open it, and... I fell flat on my face through the doorway. Right in front of all the men, lined up for me in the central lobby.

Fredericus is right in front of me, desperately trying to apologize and pick me back up. I climb back to my feet, wipe the dust off my shirt, and get to work. I have a passing thought: None of these people have any clue how to be police officers, so I should continue to operate with a military mindset until they know what they’re doing. Military dictator mode until morale improves.

“REPORT!”, I bark, rather nonplussed at what just happened.

Biru, the Orc, grunts at me. It seems like an affirmative grunt. Nothing to report from him.

Munin, the Dark Elf, holds up a letter for me. I give him a signal to bring it to me in my office.

Maahnn, the Dwarf, steps forward.

“Sir, my men have been hard at work trying to clean as best we can. We hope you find it satisfactory.”

He aggressively salutes and steps back in line, his line of compatriots behind him. They’re very serious folks, I tell you.

Conan and Gerardo had been helping the Dwarves. Time to go check out my office.

I peek my head in the door. It’s spotless! Not a speck of dust! But wait... it’s been redecorated. Dwarven style. Almost every single empty space on the walls has been filled with swords, axes and shields mounted on displays, there must be 50 of them. I put my face in my hands. I need a drink. I can’t take these down, it would be rude. Thankfully, they left the desk and chair alone. I notice the chair has been put to its lowest height setting. I can vividly imagine Maahnn sitting in this chair, his feet swinging off the ground, with a great big smile on his face. A job well done.

As soon as I sit down, in comes Munin, the dark elf, with his letter. It’s addressed to me. In very formal script, it’s a plea from every fighting age male and female warrior from his tribe requesting to join the department. A familiar, and unwelcome, voice crackles within my head. It’s Hue.

“Those guys outside are waiting for your response to that letter, John.” I turn and peer through the window. Panic grips me.

That crowd of creepy looking hooded folks? The ones who’ve sat outside for days? I thought they were homeless! Oh my god. Notwithstanding the slime’s privacy violations, I send Munin out to give me a list of names and info from them so I can vet them properly. He gracefully bows out and I’m given my first moment of peace, sitting behind the Chief’s desk.

I’ve waited more than 20 years for this moment. Ever since I was a skinny, hopeful academy recruit, baking in the hot Florida sun at attention, getting screamed at by instructors in wide-brimmed hats, this was what I aimed for. A nice, comfortable office chair, with a competent team of officers in a well-funded department under me, making a difference.

Well, I have the chair now, at least. I fix myself a celebratory glass. First day on the job. It reminds me of that rock song: “Meet the new boss, Same as the old boss”... Another knock at the door.

That great, hulking beast of a guy comes in. It’s Conan.

“Sir, I heard you were looking for recruits. I have a list of names of good guys for you.”

I thank him and send him on his way. He thoughtfully put some basic statistics on these candidates in addition to their names. Very nice.

A great, loud pounding impacts my door.

“ENTER!” I shout.

In comes Biru. Who else could it be? He just about broke through the door, I bet he was trying to be gentle. I can see splinters from the hinges on the carpet. His heavy footsteps plod over, in front of my desk.

He hands me a letter, written by Munin, clearly.

“PLEASE, SIR. MY THANKS.” He does a surprisingly graceful bow.

He was definitely coached for this moment.

The letter is a humble request for Biru’s friends, family, and associates to apply for employment. In total, there’s 35 names, all of which are very… orcish. I notice there’s ages and genders crudely scribbled beside the names. Some of them are young. 10 years old? 13?

I decide to ask Biru how tall two of these young warriors are.

He puts his hand up above his head, a full 6 inches above it, with a proud grunt. A magical screen pops up in front of my desk. It’s a few pictures of the candidates I asked about. Thanks, Hue.

They’re freaking massive. Well, the corrections guards are handled, to say the least.

I’m left with a big pile of names in front of me. 1/3rd human, 1/3rd dark elf, 1/3rd orc. As for training these folks, I’m at a loss, but at least I have warm bodies now. That’s a start.